Some time later...

Tough week....

X and I went to court Thursday for what we thought was the final step in our divorce. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to us, the state of Colorado's benefit-the-attorneys divorce system stated that we need to have an additional hearing AFTER our mandatory 90-day waiting period is up. Which means, yes, MBS and I have to postpone the wedding. Though I should have been a little more thorough in my investigation of Colorado divorce law, it just sucks that this state makes people jump through hoops in order to end a marriage. I shudder to think what the victim of abuse has to go through...

So, stay by me (and this blog) for updates.

In the meantime, we're going to Disneyland! :-D

Crashed hard, landed well, everything wonderful

So much for the posting every day.

My computer is (as far as I can tell) a cold heap of silicon. At first I thought it was just the keyboard curling its little toes; certain letters weren't working. Another keyboard, however, did nothing to solve the problem and I ended my night by slamming another beer, hoping the FUBAR might be ameliorated by a sprinkling of sparkling smegma from the Fuckup Fairy.

He/She didn't visit or the smegma was on opposite mode because absolutely nothing but the power was working the next day. I tried my HP recovery disk (like patriotism, the last refuge) but it couldn't get past the "Are you sure you want to proceed?" screen. Thus, my online blackout began and it's been that way for a week.

Oh, I had limited access at work - yesterday was my last day - but most things of any interest (including Blogger and Gmail) get blocked for peurile and largely illogical reasons. As someone who has spent almost every day for the last 9 years connected in some way, the past week has been a bit disconcerting, and I found myself turning to my computer much in the same way an ex-smoker reaches for a phantom cigarette, a habit with the dint of a bad penny.

Not in Manitou Springs, obviously; tonight is really my first night of my new life. We're heading back tomorrow to fill a U-Haul (and put Scarlett up on a trailer) but for all intents and purposes, that part of my life is behind me. So indeed, landed well, where the love is abundant and dreams come true. Even if the old comp winds up in the recycle bin, it contains nothing that outshines a moment of sun here. Maybe it was time for it to die (if you believe in those kinds of karmic bookmarks), a page closed with no regrets.

Nine pee em

…and eight days left (at work), another two after that and Manitou Springs is just a memory. In the meantime, trying to get everything packed or segregated for the garage sale, building a web site (soon!), taking care of kids and going to work… yes, a stressful time but a joyful one as well. Tonight calls for a few beers, some sweet nothings with MBS on the phone (soon we won’t need THAT connection) and then attempt to get the bulk of the web site completed.

MBS is my savior. This area has become (it seems) a vortex of nothingness, a black hole, and she has pulled me up into the light, given me love, given me hope, given me everything I’ve desired in life – and more.

The time to snap the bonds here is close. Although I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop (as if some malevolent force incarcerates me here), I believe the universe is finally turning in my favor and the time to manumit me has arrived. With my savior taking me by the hand, I gather up my children and journey to the Promised Land.

Just sayin’

Oh, I was up way too late last night/this morning working on the wedding web site. Not tonight, my friends – and no writing tonight.

I’m that tired, heh.

Randomly generated random blahging

Don’t know if you caught this last week, WH Press Secretary Dana Perino let some greenhouse gases escape from her little blonde head to bloviate about the supposed health benefits of global warming:

Sure. In some cases, there are -- look, this is an issue where I'm sure lots of people would love to ridicule me when I say this, but it is true that many people die from cold-related deaths every winter. And there are studies that say that climate change in certain areas of the world would help those individuals. There are also concerns that it would increase tropical diseases and that's -- again, I'm not an expert in that, I'm going to let Julie Gerberding testify in regards to that, but there are many studies about this that you can look into.

Um, “love to ridicule” seems a bit much; the airhead invites ridicule. If she was my daughter I’d be heartbroken with embarrassment.

As chunks of ice the size of the state of Florida, break off from the Arctic ice-sheet, the rightard’s gainsaying of Global Warming sounds more and more like the Chewbacca Defense. Speaking of which, I was more inclined to go out and chase fairies and unicorns than believe the Rockies would be anything more than soundly swept by the Sox.

It's almost time to harvest fallen leaves to feed the dump, orange and black bags piled high in a stinking maw.

And so, brothers and sisters, we, you, I (and hopefully, them), breathe, breathe, think and invite the faeries and unicorns sit in and chant an excerpt of a Samhain ritual, Invocation to the Guardian of the Gate and Sage:

You are the echo we hear at the forest deep,
And the warmth of the sun upon our face.
You are the ageless sound of the oceans roar
And the power that is felt in the wild place.
You are the wheat that rustles low on the breeze
And the spark that ignites the hearth fire.
You are the passion and the power and the ecstasy
That is reached at the end of desire.
You are the squirrel who plays games in the treetops
And the young stag who runs wild and free.
You are the clatter of hooves on the old gravel road
And the strength of the old oak tree.
You are the wrinkles of the old crippled man
and in the child, young and strong.
You are in the joy of union of love
In the passionate kiss, slow and long.
You are the lover, my father, and the Ancient One.
Take my hand and teach me the dance,
Of the change of the seasons and the eye of the storm
of fertility, of death, love and romance,
We remember always as your children to be merry
To hear the music, both dark and light
We hold sacred your realm and all it contains
As we dance to your tune in the night.

...and there's always next season, it's a young team; expect us at Coors Field when the warm comes back.

Until then, there's Wolf Creek a mere half hour away, where next season always means "just more fun".

So, I said I was perfect?

A little misstep – sorry. Thursday night my internet went down and last night I was busy boxing things up and talking to MBS until 2 AM. The boxes are piling up and I’m doing with less and less. Actually, I’m pretty pleased at how well it’s been going and I don’t feel too badly about multi-tasking within the midst of this to design the wedding web site.

Naturally, no time to write.

I suggest you go here and read this NYT Magazine piece on evangelicals starting to actually act like Christians and rejecting the Falwell/Robertson/Dobson swine that have given Christianity a very bad name.

Today the president’s support among evangelicals, still among his most loyal constituents, has crumbled. Once close to 90 percent, the president’s approval rating among white evangelicals has fallen to a recent low below 45 percent, according to polls by the Pew Research Center. White evangelicals under 30 — the future of the church — were once Bush’s biggest fans; now they are less supportive than their elders. And the dissatisfaction extends beyond Bush. For the first time in many years, white evangelical identification with the Republican Party has dipped below 50 percent, with the sharpest falloff again among the young, according to John C. Green, a senior fellow at Pew and an expert on religion and politics. (The defectors by and large say they’ve become independents, not Democrats, according to the polls.)

Some claim the falloff in support for Bush reflects the unrealistic expectations pumped up by conservative Christian leaders. But no one denies the war is a factor. Christianity Today, the evangelical journal, has even posed the question of whether evangelicals should "repent" for their swift support of invading Iraq.

"Even in evangelical circles, we are tired of the war, tired of the body bags," the Rev. David Welsh, who took over late last year as senior pastor of Wichita’s large Central Christian Church, told me. "I think it is to the point where they are saying: ‘O.K., we have done as much good as we can. Now let’s just get out of there.’ "

An encouraging article.

Ho-hum, if said by enough people over and over again, might sound like ‘om’

I’m tired and I miss MBS. The Sox embarrassed the Rox in Game 1 of the world series. And there’s lots of boxes to be packed. I’m certain you can do the math.

Saying something

It seems pretty damned nuts that although we’re still a little over a year away from a presidential election, the campaigns have been dragging on since last January. Small wonder our system of government and politics is so screwed up. Almost two years of this crap infuriates even the most dedicated political junkie, yours truly included. Polls and palaver and dimwitted punditry non-stop - that the general electorate is exasperated by the endless circus shouldn’t arch an eyebrow.

In the interest of saving billions of dollars, the relative sanity of most Americans, and the ozone, elections need to be restricted to six weeks. If a candidate announces prior to the agreed upon start date, they’re disqualified; any money raised prior to that date will be considered illegal. Any candidate who can’t build support or a decent platform in six weeks doesn’t deserve be in office. Indeed, restricting the election cycle to six weeks would eliminate a lot of the pandering and triangulation that pollutes the whole process.

The tragedy is, the dog and pony show distracts from the very real fact that this country is in crisis. The thugs and thieves who have looted our public trust (and coffers) the past seven years need to be stood in front of a firing squad, not just tossed out of power. The sad-ass state of the nation, the suffering of its children, the shattered promise of the country I grew up with... I'm sick of the whole damn process but it's all we have (short of revolution).

So return to my previous post, please. Keep hope alive.

Time to deliver

I thought this was cool, social scientists say just 11% of us make a difference:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stacey-lawson/are-you-part-of-the-11_b_69285.html

Read it and ask yourself if you are one of the 11%...

Sunday/snow day nothing-to-say edition

Snow today, the first of the season, about 5 inches of it. There really hasn’t been much of a fall – I mean the leaves have turned and everything but the weather has been decidedly summer-ish – and so the cold and snow came somewhat as a relief. Until a couple weeks ago there was no snow on Pikes Peak, by far the latest in the year that the Peak has gone without snow in all the time I have lived here. Needless to say, the extended summer temperatures and no apparent autumn had been disconcerting.

Not nearly as disconcerting, apparently, as the news that Albus Dumbledore is gay.

If you were wondering how the hayseeds were handling this news, you need to read this for a good laugh (while you’re there, poke around a bit for their hilarious take on the fishist attack on Banned Books Week).

*sigh* Ah well. At least there’s a purpose in the universe (per mathematical equation). To which I say:

Blahg-ing

Bleah.

Back in Manitou Springs for my final bid of loneliness and to put in the last stretch at work. Boxing things up and getting ready to sell the farm before I leave for Pagosa Springs three weeks from now. And as I said in my last post, this situation hardly makes me feel happy about posting every day but there you have it.

I left Pagosa a little after 8 this morning and drove straight for the 4 ½ hours it takes to get here. Took in my mail, unloaded my car and went straight to work. In a few hours I’ll be on the phone with MBS, transported by her sweet voice, missing her terribly. Needless to say, I’ll be too preoccupied – and too exhausted – to spend any time here.

Yes, we’re too adorable… and so is this:

Down the road a bit.. no a bit more... um, just a little more... almost there...

Out at a gathering hosted by MBS' friends, the couples and almost everyone's kids, which wasn't nearly as dreadful as it sounds. MBS has some very cool friends. We gathered to eat, play, jam, drink, laugh - all accomplished beyond expectations. Children with penny-whistles, beating on drums, belting it out on the couch, marshmallows melted on sticks fired in a wood-burning stove. Ladies gossiping and laughing in a tight huddle while the boys toasted a bowl in the laundry room.

NOT standard suburban fare, thank god.

Though gods were there.

Tomorrow I have to return north and finish up that chapter of my life. I do not want to go. My home is here and what I have there feels like the tail-end of a flop, where I surf a couch, waiting for the inevitable ascent to tomorrow. With the exception of my kids, everything is here and soon, even they will be here so there will be no reason to ever leave again. A night like tonight reminds me where my heart is, where my home is, where I'm meant to be. Tomorrow I'll be at my not-home, working at my soon to be not-job, not happy, not with MBS.

Fortunately, it's not long in all that but until then, prepare for rather testy posts. The next three weeks will be busy and bitchy.

Making out with Mara, drunk on wine

All your pumpkins are belong to us and by the way, they beep when the best of everything bursts through the center

So this whole posting every day thing isn't supposed to start until November but I figured I'd flex my limbs, curl my toes, chop all the hair out of my nose in order to get ready for the... whatever it is that posting once a day gets me. A nifty
thing on my blog roll and two or three people who never read me and - after reading me - realize there's better ways to kill a minute... sweet.

I rise to the challenge, even if I'm a wet willow branch that bends in the wind

I could have taken the day off but then how would it have finished?

Contrary to all rumors (that I started), I am in fact now posting every day until the first of December. The persistent yet otherwise magnificent MizMlle challenged me to NaBloPoMo (illegal in 6 other states, still) and I accept, the taste of a nation (or the tastes of a weird few) be damned.

So you might get a lot of this:



or this and that.

With one small rock in place, we are a step closer to a new adventure

So yeah, I was fooling around with this woman's finger last Friday night...

Since nobody noticed that I failed to post a Random Friday thingy (in fact, no has has seemed to notice that I haven't posted anything at all in the past week and a half), I'll just kind of skip over the not posting part and pretend I'm my usual chatty self. Or not.

I've had bigger fish to fry (and more on that in a bit) than updating here. MBS arrived with her sparkling trio of daughters on Friday for a big weekend in my neck of the woods. My mother graciously hosted a slumber party with combined broods while MBS and I stepped out for dinner at one of Manitou Springs' nicer restaurants for an evening of romance and big deals. See, although MBS and I had pretty much decided that we would be married January 5, 2008 and agreed that together forever was where our hearts resided, I hadn't gotten around to "the official asking" task. So it was a dinner with a mission.

We chose the "Old World" appetizer and the Seafood entree' platter, electing to go with their 3-wine matches for the various courses (with my nerves a little frazzled, I had to opt for another glass). Everything was superb, delicious although the quality of the food, wine, or service was a distant third to what was truly on my mind: the marvelous company I had for dinner (my best friend ever, my soulmate, the most beautiful woman in the world) and of course, the task at hand (pun indeed intended, mea culpa).

Right before the chocolate fondue and the tawny port, I palmed the ring, got up from my seat and moved to MBS, reeling with anxiety. Yeah, I knew she'd say "yes" but still, it was a huge deal, a lifetime-defining moment. Before her, I knelt on one knee and took her hand in mine and said, "Um... I have the wrong hand, don't I?"

MBS giggled, I think she thought my nervousness was kind of cute, and offered me the correct hand. Slipping the ring on her finger, I asked if she would do me the honor of being my wife and live with me forever. I hope it goes without saying that she responded positively especially considering the post from a weeks back.

I'm in Pagosa Springs now, having followed MBS and her fabulous girls home after the elation of that evening out. I want to thank everyone for their suggestions on the color scheme for our wedding website (I'll post the URL as soon as I get it done), we decided to go with white, red, and black (something to do with Celtic tradition). In the flurry that is moving a family and planning a wedding, I hope I can find time to post here every few days or so but I think you all will understand if I don't get it done.Anyway, I don't have Photoshop here to clean up the two dark pics our waitress took with my phone at the end of our dinner...

You'll have to help me decide which pic is better.

However, I think you all can decide that she is, in fact, the most beautiful woman in the world.

Friday random yadda yadda

There's a ga-jillion reasons I'm looking forward to moving to Pagosa Springs but I must confess that a small guilty pleasure is the existance of a dishwasher. As I type this, a sink full of dirty dishes moans my name like some dope-fiend distant relation and I'm doing all I can to ignore the imprecations of the stack teetering at sinks edge. We wash by hand here in Manitou Springs, a hard scrabble life. This second glass of Shiraz is helping me tune out the din of dishes tired of posing as seventh-grade biology projects.

The midget mafia is in the other room, squeeling like nitrous fiends, batting an inflatable skeleton around (that they've named, for no good reason, "Bobby"), pretending the puffy bit of kitsch possesses some potential for terror. The mafia browbeat me into putting up Halloween decorations with a threat somewhere between "we'll put them up ourselves" and "pity if something should happen to your fingers sometime during the night". So, there's glowing plastic pumpkins in the windows and orange icicle lights hanging from the eaves although I'm not certain what orange-colored faux icicles have to do with Halloween. When the Boss tells you what you gotta do, you don't ask which windows get the goofy bat stick-ons.

It's not bad enough that I'm getting my balls busted by festivity infested firkins and fuzzy flatware but I also need to get a wedding web site together, whatever colors we need eludes me at the moment. Once upon a time, before the Dot Bomb, I worked as a web designer and was damn good at it. And I guess I could do that but I'm still wondering if I do this well in the least, this with 'the blogging'. All that's out there - what color does that get? These aren't questions that should be asked when one's balls are smashed, but here they are, nonetheless.

What colors would you go with?

I'm not too proud, see.

When other bloggers talk about their random 10 or whatever, they're talking about their iPod shuffle. Hey, if you're going to sit there watching Murder, She Wrote, you need to know how this all goes down.

I'm too poor to own an iPod. Nothing's random but this, here.

Another Hell in the Here & Now

Boycott Chevron & Total filling stations until their companies quit doing business with the brutal regime in Burma

Hopefully I got your attention with that, the extent of anything a worthless blogger like me can do for the people of Burma.

I've been staring at that last sentence for a half hour and now that I'm typing again (in this weirdly meta-meta-way), it occurs to me that the problem is not having anything to say but wanting to say too much, all at once, frothing at the mouth, fists clenched, veins bulging in my neck and forehead. There are times I want to be Superman and use those powers to make a difference, fly to Burma and slap the crap out of the soldiers until they see that firing on their own people is wrong, criminal, a one-way ticket to hell; I want to round up the junta and toss them far out into the sea; I want to have the CEO of Chevron quivering and crying on the ground in front of me, kicking him in the nuts until his ears bleed.

For those of you who were just rescued from a collapsed mine, Vicki fills you in, classier and with more restraint, natch. So does Amanda:

Our hearts are with those who struggle in Burma because they must, because you will never be wholly owned as long as you continue to struggle. It’s easy for me to say that, though, isn’t it? Which is why writing this is hard; my awe of those who put their lives on the line is humbling. May we all have the courage of our convictions as those who struggle against the military dictatorship do.

Read them and then see what kind of brutality they're talking about.

It's really hard to type with clenched fists. I just want to kick in a door and smash the little painted clay statue of capitalism lit with candles, glittering with the chipped pittances of the poor, shining on an altar in every glass monstrosity casting its long shadow. Every one of us here immersed in the glow of these photons spun to us through a few holes in the wall seem to owe our alliance to Chevron and/or Time/Warner and/or Disney/ABC/CapCities and/or/and/or/and the transfat empire but I can assure you, we can shake off our chains (um, except, I suspect that if you're reading me, shaking off chains isn't usually your motivation).

Don't buy anything from Chevron or Total, that's all I'm saying. So glad I live in a society where I can say what I want, a society of laws and compassion.

Camomile Tea

Outside the sky is light with stars;
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.

How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.

Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.

~ Katherine Mansfield

The leaves are turning and mornings bite, a nip sharp enough to make me take a breath of it inside and convince me that a coat has a place in my future. Every year I wish summer would endure and every year those wishes get whooshed away with the dervishes of dust and leaves that spin eastward down my street. The windows get closed at night and there’s pumpkins to be carved.

This year is different, though: it’s my first samhain, be gentle with me.

Prime me with camomile tea.

Finish me with mulled wine.

Never pass by

About a block away from where my children used to have day care is a post that flashes a crossing warning for school kids. It’s not normally something that would capture my attention but I noticed it the first time when I dropped my kids off at daycare. The post was covered with plastic flowers, ribbons, photos, small toys and teddy bears piled up at its base. About four feet up was a piece of cardboard about 2 foot square with a picture of a young girl, dark hair with a slight wave and black eyes shining with the glee of being, her broad grin both loving and mischievous, a missing tooth telling the world she was probably in first or second grade.

Scrawled around her photo in a deliberate, pained script were phrases of love and sorrow, beliefs of a better world and the certainty of an ache that would never go away. One cold morning, the horizon tinged with scattered hues of autumn, I stood reading those words, tracing the outline of her face with my fingertip as I gently wiped the grime of traffic from her photo. I could not touch her, my fingers merely moving across the projection of what she had been and what her family wanted me to know of her, a stranger passing by and taking the time to hear their lament. The story was clear and sad in that rarified fall air. I could not touch her but she and her family had touched me.

Months later, the post was clear, everything stripped away so that only cold steel reflected the colors of passing cars rushing into lives indifferent to what had been there before. City workers, I thought, ordered by some mindless bureaucrat to “beautify” an otherwise ugly strip of pavement where drivers blazed by with single-minded intention and kids crossed in peril. My sadness grew; not just that the memorial had been taken down (and for no good reason, I thought) but with the thought that she was now forgotten as life marched relentlessly, heartlessly along.

Today I was supposed to go visit the grave of my son who passed ten years ago but unfortunately, my head was down and I was swimming upstream, fighting mindless bureaucracies, driving with single-minded intention, heedless of love or lament or plastic flowers laid out to remind me of my own ache. It’s not that I had forgotten (not a day goes by when I don’t think of him) but I was too busy rushing headlong into every challenge that presented itself. Every time I hit the canvas, I got up for more, bloodied but resolute, angrier and more determined. The fire in my gut told me that I would end up victorious and in some ways, I had. Unfortunately, that fire took what I needed to sustain in my heart. Fighting made me as ugly as the boulevard that cannot sustain the memory of a life cut too short or families who bother to build a monument to love.

Rekindling the spark in my heart, I’m reminded that my own memorial does not reside on (or in) a post, or in a graveyard. Three beautiful children I’ve raised, the love that I offer to MBS and her three beautiful children, his spirit, love; his spirit thrives. Indeed, it's that energy that commands me to share the abundance, his legacy, not the stone in the ground, the bit of cardboard that says nothing and everything.

That and then sharing even more with MBS and her three beautiful children is as good as any pyramid or a cathedral. Noble taught me many things, the most important being that I need to stop and read at those places where teddy bears have been piled up and plastic flowers have been sewn lovingly into the fabric of a painful memory, that there are many more important things than to answer each petty battle with a flint face. He taught me that the fire in my gut diminishes the light in my heart and for that, he will always be loved; he will always give me pause and require me to stop and stand on the side of a road to weep.

About a week ago, I noticed that the pole had been done up again. Fortunately, for the same girl. The fire in my heart blazed as I considered how a family had taken their own fire and turned the decree of one more heartless bureaucrat into fuel for their hearts. Good for them, I thought, and my mind turned from where I was going to where I had been. I was no longer driving by with my own mindless, heartless direction but set on a path that did not ask me to fight or react out of anger but just do what needed to be done, accumulate teddy bears and plastic flowers and place them all where all could see that my love would overcome the need to fight. I miss my Noble so much (and such an aptly named child!) and tomorrow, 10 years and a day after I last held him in my arms, I will stop on the side of the road and weep.

The Times They are A-Changing

Yes, it’s been over a month since I threw up my last post (yes, the allusion to vomit was intentional) but I’m not back because I believe I owe an apology. My life has been full and happy and exciting and for that, I refuse to offer amends. What I will offer is an explanation for why Patriside has been and the promise that this little space won’t be as bone dry like it’s been the past few months.

Some of you (the three or four of you with the questionable taste for reading me) have no doubt noticed mention of MBS, My Binary Star, the love of my life. Despite my innate skepticism and atheism, I’ve tossed the term “soulmate” around without irony or sarcasm. From the first moment I chatted with MBS (a giddy and delirious conversation that stretched into the wee hours and was reluctantly terminated in deference to the need for sleep) I knew she was special in a way that rocked my world, opened my heart and mind, special in a way that far exceeded anyone I had ever met before.

When we finally met a few weeks later, all my hopes and dreams were confirmed. MBS came to Manitou Springs (a 4 ½ drive from her place) to meet me at the legendary Loop Mexican restaurant. I got a small table near the window to watch for her and as long as I live, I’ll always remember the vision of her crossing the street to meet me. My first reaction was total awe, her beauty was stunning. Almost immediately after that I was hit with doubt and fear: how could a woman this gorgeous have any attraction for me? Then, sadness as I worried that our weeks of connection on the phone, text messages and emails would be washed away into a bad memory hole as she got a good look at me and said, “You’re a nice guy Jim but not really my type…”

Fortunately that was not the case (and other than finding me attractive MBS has exquisite taste) and the rest is, as they say, history. The moment I met MBS that night online, my life changed, for the better. My lifelong dream of an eternal passion with an intelligent, beautiful, sexy and loving woman looked like a possibility. Our first weekend together made it abundantly clear to me that not only was my dream within my grasp but that woman I’d always dreamed of would also be my best friend. The entire weekend felt as though I’d spent glorious hours reconnecting with a long-lost kindred spirit, it felt as though we’d known each other our entire lives.

Every time we get together it just gets better and better. Since late February we’ve been together over a dozen times (I just returned from 4 days with her and her children) and the more we’re together, the more our passion grows – and the more the longing aches as we pine for one another, crave to be together.

So it should come as no surprise to ya’ll that we’re going to be married. January 5, 2008 at our house in Pagosa Springs. Yes, I’m leaving my cool little town of Manitou Springs and realizing another long time dream of mine, moving farther into the mountains. I’ll be moving there in mid-November and will bringing the kids down in late-December to start school there in early January (the week MBS and I will be married!). We’re blending our family: MBS has 3 girls of her own (ages 12, 9, and 4) so it’s kind of a Brady Bunch situation. This blog started off with the subtitle “A single full-time dad figures it out” and that was changed after X and I went back to shared custody because I felt dishonest referring to myself as “full-time dad” (even though it can feel full-time). Still, when I’ve bothered to write, the emphasis of this blog has been, by-and-large, my life as a single dad. Obviously, that’s about to change and MBS has suggested that my writing will soon reflect the trials and tribulations of a newlywed husband and father of a blended family. One assumes that hilarity will ensue.

My reluctance to write about MBS had to do with a silly superstition that writing about relationships automatically jinxed the works. With a wedding date set and absolute certainty that MBS will be the last happy thought I have as I shuffle off this mortal coil, it’s clear I’m far beyond the influence of a jinx and my superstition was, yes, silly.


The view from our deck in Pagosa Springs

Time to change this blog. I am head over heels in love and about to be married for the final time, forever, for good and all. Hopefully I’ll be writing more about this new love and new life, my new family, my new locale, my new lease on life. There’s a lot to say and I’m glad to be over my irrational fear (and I firmly believe that fear is the opposite of love). For those intrepid few who have stayed with me, these upcoming months should provide a lot of material for me to gab about here.

And to my newest reader, MBS, these next few months will express some small measure of my love for you. The times, they are indeed a-changin’ and baby, so much for the better. The change here will (I hope) document our journey together towards a magnificent forever.

People with incredible intelligence and motivation and a lot more time on their hands

oh, they Blog here:

Hope Blogging

Go there and thank me lately.

That is all.

Didn't go, didn't get the goddamn shirt

Goddamnit, I was supposed to be at BlogHer but circumstance confounded me (Grace losing her dad, for one) and I wasn't able to finally meet the true owner of my heart (though, I understand she hooked up HUGE). It's not like they needed me there, running around in my speed-o and spilling rum and cokes over everyone but still, it would have been fun to piss on the baby leopard at the chicago zoo and pound on Amy Sullivan's door at 4 AM screaming about her aborting our baby, especially after all the acid we'd done together. The bitch was insatiablee on acid, would go all night, wake the goddamn neighbors. C'mon Amy, PLEEEEEEZE.

Oops - Amy Sedaris. Shit. That's uncool. Too many rum and cokes - sorry. After security would escort me outside (and what an idiotic mistake - Sedaris being so much finer than Sullivan), I'd have stumbled back to the zoo to piss on the baby leopard - again, mama leopard be damned.

Cuz I roll like that, yo. Mamacat awed by my huge schwang waving around, pissing on her babies, wide-eyed and afraid, wondering if I'd hit her over the head with that monster and dead to the ankles afraid I'd poke her. Hard. Pissing on kittens and unafraid of getting clawed and bit. Especially by Amy Sullivan, not Amy Sedaris.

Another reason they kept me away from coming to BlogHer

David Brooks, are you Harvard educated kids in Iraq?

Well, Scarlett wasn't ready and we never made our visit to the MBS villa. On Tuesday night (on my way to gather my brood), the alternator belt snapped; after I replaced the belt on Yuesday, the fuel pump went yesterday. I must have some kind of karma because when I intended to visit MBS before, my Audi decided to start overheating and once it was in the shop, I learned the timing housing was about to go. As much as I want to (and need to) get to where MBS lives, the universe has been clear about what I needed to do to prevent being stranded on some desert stretch of road. Still, that hasn't prevented me from feeling worthless for not being able to get to MBS, and my karmic coincidence hasn't come without a psychic cost. We can equivocate about how well it worked out that my cars have taken a dump the day before I was about to hit the road (so didn't die somewhere miles from nowhere) but I nonetheless can't avoid the thought that something is holding me back.

Maybe it's just poverty; that certainly makes sense. Despite what the useful idiot David Brooks says, this isn't a smashing, rockin' economy. Those of us who are struggling to just get by (or know those who are), we're not interested in knowing that the top 1% are living fat. If everything's so fanfuckingtastic, where's ours?

Bug-B-Gon No Mo!

In the continuing saga of this marvelously charmed summer, my long-time toy has come home to me.


She (“Scarlett”) and I have been together for 19 years and have traveled all over, often on bailing wire and snot, duct tape and spare rubber, mostly with me chanting, "go Scarlett, go," a mantra that works, sometimes, but usually it involving me and my scraped up knuckles rammmed against hot metal, me growling against her and her pissing brake fluid and attitude, rattling ass in that proprietary Veedub chitter that announces a bug like a cicada. In the bonnet (not trying to be some pretentious anglophile prick but I can't think of a better term for it) is still a bedroll, tarp, cooking & fishing gear, sundry survival items (i.e. pipe fittings and faucet screens), and a WWII surplus camouflage net: I can pull over almost anywhere (and I did, many times), throw the net over her and shove in some branches, find some solitude, get a huge buzz on, or just create a quiet place to rest my head. Before the kids, it was more often than not that I'd let her spontaneously take me somewhere into the mountains where I'd never been, a couple days and nights free, me free, everything free but gas and beer and a package of hotdogs. With the engine in the rear and the incredible amount of torque that goes with that, she took me places no regular car (or even trucks) could go. We've made it up many jeep-trails and never once was I scared we'd get stuck.

Today, as we drove north, Lilly asked if Scarlett talks to me. Feeling the vibration of the steering wheel, the torque flexing as I shifted, I had to say "yes," she does, she's happy, tickled that the children who played in her while she stood idle and broken are now enjoying the wind rushing through her windows. I talk to her, she talks to me and I think, for most things, we understand each other.

A couple years ago, I dated a goth girl for about five minutes. She needed a car and I foolishly lent Scarlett to her, believing her when she said she knew how to use a shifter. Some small part of me believes Scarlett was miffed at my promiscuous palming her off but whatever the reason, she refused to move, her clutch flacid and worthless. Two years of slave-wages had her silent and still in my driveway, weeds growing around her tires and through her bumper, sad and forsaken, a plaything for my kids but not for me.

And now she's back, purring perfectly. We're taking her south this week to see MBS and her girls, a 4 hour drive through desert and mountains. I'll pack a lot Capris Sun, coloring books, and soft toys. We'll leave early to get through the desert while the day is cool, hit the mountains by late-morning. No DVD, no A/C, just us and some road songs and long looks out the window where imaginations run free. I'll post some pics later in the week.

I am a happy man.

Out of the Burbs and into the pit 7/8/07

...and you will know us by the mud on our Chucks

The universe was shining brightly Sunday as my Binary Star and I blazed to Denver for the Warped Tour. Almost sixty bands on five stages, none of them on the bill to induce a meditative mood. Considering the skull-smashing hangovers we were both nursing (resulting from the too-much-fun we'd shared on Saturday night), meditation was about as welcome as menudo (both the soup AND the band).

A perfect punk vibe, all DYI and seat of our pants: the tix hadn't arrived in MBS's mailbox by Saturday (we had to arrange for alternates at Will Call), we woke up late (see above, RE: near-fatal hangover), when we arrived at the hotel the room wasn't ready, it took FOREVER to get a cab and MBS missed one of the "must sees" on her list, Tiger Army (I took a punch in the shoulder for that one). Intrepid orbs us, we plunged headlong into the crowds and had one of the best times of my life, ever.

The first stop was the beer tent (overpriced watery crap) to take the edge off our hangovers. Since necessity breeds desperation, we drained a couple of plastic cups without complaint - hell, it was with a sigh of relief. Got a couple more cupfuls and headed off to see the tail end of Big D and the Kid's Table set, a ska/punk outfit. Wandering some more, we finally made it to The Line-Up Board
where we were finally able to get oriented as to who was where, when and all that (though I admit I was pretty much disoriented all day). You can probably blow the pic up and see most of the band names; short of that, I can tell you our next band was Pennywise which, two songs into the, the producers shut down due to the impending thunderstorm.

The skies opened up and really dumped. Naturally, we grabbed a couple of beers and took refuge from the pouring rain under a Miller

You can't see it in the pic but rain was streaming down the bill of my cap and watering down my already watery beer (note to Warped Tour people: get us some microbrew!). The storm lasted about an hour and people huddled where they could

although I'm not sure a tree is the place I'd want to stand during a thunderstorm, even if there wasn't much lightning. Needless to say, we weren't rained out and Pennywise took the stage again - probably my favorite band of the day.

Yeah, blurry (a phone pic ferchrisesake) but you can see I was right up on the pit and was getting jostled a lot. And yeah, this old man did go into the pit (during Bad Religion) and I have a scab on my elbow from getting knocked to the pavement. Two guys were right there to lift me up and throw me back into the eddy which was totally cool slam-dance etiquette and warmed my heart considerably. I didn't crowd surf, though; hell, I'm OLD!!!

The next few bands didn't do much for us so we spent some time walking around, checking out booths, drinking more beer. The place was a maze - and amazing - we

eventually ended up at the Pepper table where I got a shirt and CD signed for MBS. Their set was fun, punk-reggae from Hawaii.

More fun :-D MBS and me...

Finally, the headliners Bad Religion... again, too fuzzy but I think you get a sense of how much energy - LOVING ENERGY - was there for all to share.

And as the sun set on Invesco

we bid goodbye to one of the most excellent days ever...

....oh, but what a night!!!

"I am IRONY man...."

Doooo Doooooooooooooooooooo.....

Duh duh dadadada DUH dadada DUH da DUH DUH

Just wondering when children of privilege feel the least bit icky when they post Mission of Burma up on their site and not recall that the barb was meant for them.

Wot? Hello...

G Is for Not Just One George

Gilbert and his brother, plus the monkey,
Plus the Boy, plus the place to touch,
Plus the force in a high-speed plane at upper altitude.
Then there is the grape we learned to drink

And the gas we loved to guzzle and the nightmare
Of a president we suffered to the world
When he looked into the gorge between true and facile
And said, Bring them on. Sad, sad,

Sad going world nowhere.
"They" say curiosity is what keeps us going.
(The girl who only repeats what she hears
On the NPR smacks her gum

And fingers her Hop-along gun in its holster;
She purchased it in August on eBay.
Graphic novels are all she'll read, she says,
But she's lying. At night she reads Goethe

And studies the German way
Of saying her gutturals.
Get your hands out of the gutter, Girlie.
She doesn't dare look his way but only spits

Out her gum into a tissue. She has "issues"—
Obviously.) And Gandhi, who can forget him?
Although clearly some have. And an earlier war's grudge.
Does anyone's mind go there anymore? The jungle

Heat, the endless night cicada cacophony.
The sick whir of the rotors, men clinging
To landing skids, sweat drizzling down
Along every subtle pattern a spine can possibly make,

The hovercraft adrift, pirouetting above
The American Embassy. Yes, Virginia, it is Saigon
I'm speaking of. And, yes, you're so right.
After a while, the mind goes silent.

Even though there's always a bid in, and the crying
Of another proffered lot. Another other voice echoing itself
As the gong of the inevitable "Going, going, gone"
While someone crumples over somewhere and—

We gasp, as if we didn't comprehend it would end
This way nor what Dylan meant years ago
When he played guitar
And said we wouldn't need a weatherman.

Get it going on for our friends and family who never served, say you? I have plenty friends and family serving who hate this war (and our retard president) who are kind of sick of them, separated by degrees, yet not doing one goddamn thing to get them that sacrifice out of the sandbox.

Wave that flag, wave it wide and high

One of the bursts from Red Mountain

Picking myself up from yesterday's full-on psychotic ramble, we strolled down to the park for barbecued buffalo flesh, balloon animals, and a park full of over-priced crap. It was a perfect 4th of July, probably the best Independence Day I've ever spent; music and love and children running wild for whatever moments they have left as innocents in their here and now, all that which we'd sell our souls for, just to possess a fraction. We danced, we dipped our toes in the stream,

climbed to new heights,

and danced together as local bands played folky/swing stuff in the midst of a hail storm.

I hope your fourth was as full of love, fun, and free of the shit that Bush/Cheney have sunk our country under, participles dangling withstanding and Constitution compromised.

Oh yeah - here's me:

(via http://www.simpsonsmovie.com/main.html)

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow

Happy time, yes, as I said yesterday, summertime and the livin’ is easy, everything sweet as pink lemonade. Tomorrow will be a blast (of course, please excuse the pun) and our hoard will be terrorizing my tiny town, making the sidewalks sticky with spilled soda and tufts of cotton candy. Manitou Springs sponsors a big buffalo barbecue in the park and we’ll be there, enjoying the day, waiting for the fireworks, celebrating another year of our great country.

Happy time, yes, and yet I am furious, enraged by the lawlessness of Bush and enraged by the Eloi stupidity of our Washington elites and bovine press corpse. Patting themselves on the back for looking out for themselves, their well-connected pals, and how that's been achieved on the backs - and the blood - of honest Americans.

A little over 13 years ago I made a stupid mistake, I was busted for possession of a small amount of meth. For that I received a felony that has haunted me ever since. Fortunately, my current employer only asks about crimes from the past 7 years so it was overlooked (aside from speeding tickets, my record is spotless the past 13 years). I didn't lie to a grand jury, I didn't out an undercover CIA operative, I did my time like a man and put my past behind me. Fuckwit Bush did not commute my sentence.

Before I collapse into a shrill and incoherent rant, I'll let what Keith Olbermann said tonight speak for me:

And now, when just one cooked book gets corrected by an honest auditor…

When just one trampling of the inherent and inviolable “fairness” of government is rejected by an impartial judge…

When just one wild-eyed partisan is stopped by the figure of blind justice…

This President decides that he, and not the law, must prevail.

I accuse you, Mr. Bush, of lying this country into war.

I accuse you of fabricating in the minds of your own people, a false implied link between Saddam Hussein and 9/11.

I accuse you of firing the generals who told you that the plans for Iraq were disastrously insufficient.

I accuse you of causing in Iraq the needless deaths of 3,586 of our brothers and sons, and sisters and daughters, and friends and neighbors.

I accuse you of subverting the Constitution, not in some misguided but sincerely-motivated struggle to combat terrorists, but instead to stifle dissent.

I accuse you of fomenting fear among your own people, of creating the very terror you claim to have fought.

I accuse you of exploiting that unreasoning fear, the natural fear of your own people who just want to live their lives in peace, as a political tool to slander your critics and libel your opponents.

I accuse you of handing part of this republic over to a Vice President who is without conscience, and letting him run roughshod over it.

And I accuse you now, Mr. Bush, of giving, through that Vice President, carte blanche to Mr. Libby, to help defame Ambassador Joseph Wilson by any means necessary, to lie to Grand Juries and Special Counsel and before a court, in order to protect the mechanisms and particulars of that defamation, with your guarantee that Libby would never see prison, and, in so doing, as Ambassador Wilson himself phrased it here last night, of you becoming an accessory to the obstruction of justice.

Tomorrow I'll celebrate the ideal of what my country promises and try to forget what it has become under the corrupt leadership of George W. Bush. I wish you all a joyous Fourth and may God have mercy on our president.

No cure for the summertime blues

This has been a long time between posts and I wonder if there’s really any reason to post. Over the past few weeks, I’ve wondered if I should continue this – I’ve felt like I have nothing to say, that there’s no real reason for this blog. It’s not that I’m miserable or anything, Quite the contrary, I am happier than I have been in years, perhaps ever. The job I have now (although not in my field) pays very well, is employee-focused, and doesn’t send me home limp and emotionally shattered. I’ve been dating someone who meets and exceeds every quality I’d associate with the concept of “soulmate” (it doesn’t hurt that I also find her stunning, a goddess). So much of this blog has shown me whining about how dismal my life has been and I was all too ready to spill that out here on your screens. Now that things are one big ice-cream sundae, I have been tight-lipped, as it were.



Part of that is superstition. Funny how an atheist like myself will give credence to silly beliefs but honestly, I am afraid that I write about the good things, I’ll somehow jinx that by merely making it real here in the blogosphere. Maybe that’s from a deeper belief that what’s good in my life is merely a dream and that by writing about it will shatter the illusion but I’m circumspect about going into detail about those aspects of my life.



I’m also trying to write a novel and that seems to be drawing energy off of what I’d normally expend here at this little dive. As notes and sketches come together, I’ll give the three or four of you who read me a little preview.



And finally – is there a mixmania! Going on? I have to check my archives, I’m pretty sure we had a cool theme this time but I’ve spaced stuff out here (for reasons I mentioned above).



Hey, it’s summer – too nice to be inside on the web or composing blog posts. Enjoy the weather.

Milestones and millstones

At the end of the summer, Zeke starts kindergarten.

Damn, when I started this, he was still making massive messes in diapers (which I avoided mentioning, thankyouverymuch) and now we're here, with him starting school. What a long, strange trip it's been.

I don't have much to say, really - finishing my parent's yard (I swear, pics in July), working loads of OT - my life is going swimmingly. As I told the binary star in my newly sweet system, I think I've swept all the karmic junk into the gutter, the past is dribbling into the sewer hole where the kids catch air on their skateboards.

To KC - the birds are at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. To everyone else - enjoy your summer, I know I will. Peace.

Of melodies pure and true

Fuzzy birds - no camera but my phone:



Our local zoo tries, tries hard. Regretably, there's not much you can do at this altitude and zone but they've really done much to move beyond the conrete slab/metal cage presentation of animals and although the selection is not that diverse, at least it's not a circus.

The newest display involves free-flying birds, parrots and parakeets and all those kinds of animals (as you saw in the first pic) that may or may not be eager to eat you shit-on-a-stick. Zeke lucked out (as usual), some large tufted bird landed on his head then crawled down his arm to eventually sit on his finger. I wish I had pics of all that but I was busy assuring him that the bird wouldn't peck his brains out, showing him how to put his finger out as a perch, watching the light in his eyes flash as he held the bird on his finger



The girls weren't as lucky, no birds landing on them much less looking for a seed stick. Nonetheless, they found some willing beaks:





And at the end of it, I took three very tired children home to reflect on what they'd experienced, where they'd been and of course, they just wanted to eat and go to bed. However, the proof is in the eternity because, at the end of this day, they're still talking about their experience whereas I'm wondering how I'm going to get my struts replaced.

Kids - heh.

We Eights it, it burns us….

Kim – thinking person’s blog; a couple of months ago but it’s been clear that the last couple of months have been blogging desert for me.

The first rule of the game is to post the rules of the game. Here they are:

* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
As the world’s worst blogger, I shouldn’t have to explain one damn thing but I will because, hey, I’m the world’s worst blogger and the half-assed excuses for my half-assed life make for some compelling reading. That is, if you’re here because you’re done reading the back of the soup can.

One of the reasons I haven’t been writing much (aside from not having much other than, “Got up and after I discovered I had to pee, realized I hate to iron!”) is that it’s Spring and the Garden and the lawn calls. Flowers and vegetables to be planted, plots to be rearranged, rocks to be hauled and holes to be dug. Once the hint that Winter was edging towards the past tense, I’ve been ripping out the old and deciding how the new should be arranged, accepting that a hard freeze is part of a Rocky Mountain Spring.

This is all done at my parent’s house, BTW. My own place is owned by tweakers, my yard full of boxes of dead printer parts and bricks.
Tomorrow I’ll give you (both of you) a pictorial tour of the work or work-in-progress – I wish I’d had the foresight to do before/after but thank God I didn’t – and you can see my hand hasn’t been idle, in service of the devil, and far too dirty to, well, you know.

Until then, I need to acknowledge those who have acknowledged me. The first be the Fabulous Kim (and this is WAY overdue – I’m such a schmuck) for nominating me and writing REALLY nice things about me for a Thinking Blogger award. She said:

Nino the Mindboggler at Patriside. If only everyone could write like this man... It's impossible not to mull over his thoughts, go ahead, go see for yourself.

Which is a bit like Carson McCullers throwing a bone to a drooling undergrad. I appreciate the award and the kudos. I'll eventfully put that button up when the Zero Boss awards me the $50 Amazon certificate I was supposed to get back in March (what a good month for me!). Kind of cynical on buttons, I guess.

And on top of that, I need to acknowledge the magnificent MizMell and the hurt she just put on me for this meme thing. Less a meme and more a game, so let's play...

The first rule of the game is to post the rules of the game. Here they are:

* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

Here’s mine:

• Obviously, I love to garden/do yardwork; there's something about a lush, green lawn that gets me going;
  
• I'm not one of those PC "freethinker" athiests: my kids believe in Santa, the Easter Bunny, and watch "Veggie Tales" - they'll figure it out at the end of the day;
  
• When we go camping, my children know Orion, Scorpio, Leo, et al, because, at the end of the night, what else are you gonna’ do?
  
• Ego narro latin volubiliter; just kidding, I know enough to translate most romance languages, v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y;
  
• I have tried to read Ulysses four times and have always been stalled just after the funeral scene;
  
• I read Atrios, then DKos every day; Tbogg and Sadly, No! every day because, if you're going to watch the feathers plucked out of a turd chucked under a chin, you might as well do it from a distance, eh;
  
• I hate blogs that whine about being tagged but more than that, I hate blogs that just ignore the tag and shift their superior nose to the air to sniff where no one cares whatnot and such.

Ka-faw, ka-faw, ka-faw... here's your eight:
Mamacita, Vicki, Landismom, Sarah, Trusty,
Anne,
Lauren, and the afformentioned Zero Boss

I'll email all these folks but I expect a 25% return rate so I leave it to you to wonder WTF happened... cheers!

Mixmania! - Your life story

To all you mothers – I hope your day was full of laughter and burnt French Toast and May flowers. I would have written my own tribute to you mothers but I had my own mothers to contend with, tributes and tribulations.

There’s been a lot distracting me lately, the least of which is my parent’s yard and my urge to make it pretty. Pics to be provided this weekend. There’s a lot more to say but I dunna’ wanna’ jinx it, y’know. I’m a bit superstitious with that and for good reason.

Until then, it’s Saturday as far as I’m concerned; I’ll take players until June 15, disks to arrive by June 27 and then, by July 1 – post your life story.

Have fun - I am... :-D

Another Mixmania! …and another explanation from me (Ho Hum, hmmmm…)

Starting with the next theme (with a nod to the fab-a-lust ~D), I’m asking “What is your life story?”

I know that several of you will be inclined to make multiple disks (the always stellar Mamacita made SIX DISKS last mix!) but I’m putting a two-disk moratorium on this one: narrow down what you want to say about your life into two disks – then WRITE about what sits within the segues, describe the rocks in your streams, each and every rock’s tint, no matter what the stream said then and what it says now.

The stream has been muddy and swift lately; my babies punch me in the stomach like little ninjas in Pooh pajamas. Whenever we go to the park, they’re down at the stream and I’m there behind them, watching, reminding them that whatever goes into the creek changes it forever. Hoping none of them will go into the creek for their, mine, or the water’s life story.

We don’t have tornadoes here but that doesn’t mean random death doesn’t spin this way and that those of us tucked within tall rocks aren’t stuffed safely between the mounds of infinite bosom; remember Columbine.

Whatever dropped into the stream will be fine; rocks, sticks, bodies, dredge whatever’s there and paint it onto 48 songs or so. Something, anything – tell us who you are.

Time, time away and time to write about time

Little Man shows us all that there are far better thing to do than writing a damn blog

Yes, the theme is ‘Time’ and now’s the time for all bad bloggers (specifically, yours truly) to come to the aid of those who received a little brown envelope full of something ear-splittingly toxic this past week. Just after the FBI’s kicked in your door and started tearing up the carpet but just prior to the timorous tapping of hazmat-suited CDC dweebs at your door, I give you the links of potential victims and the recipe for my aural anthrax.

Smed
Got Cow Now?
Daily Bitch
Sterfish
Fantastic Sam
Mamacita... bow down, ya'll
Crazy Math Lady
Alala
Punchbuggy Blues
The Awesome ~d

Thems the responsible Ahmerkuns, God bless em' one and all. None of em' dropped a bomb nowhere that I know of nor ended ended a sentence

Now, for the poison I sent out with no fear of being eventually strapped to a water board...

Cornershop - 6 A.M. Juliander Shere
The call to prayer, wake up, time to shake your head and recognize the big world outside your bedroom window is waiting to toss you into rotating blades and turn you into mulch.

Ministry - Jesus Built My Hotrod
"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son,[a] that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life," and left some fucking incredible tires.

Fugazi - No Exit
Gotta' figure Satre had his pistons oiled well enough by Jesus at one time or another which led, eventually, to Fugazi telling us about how it felt... MMMmmmm....

Stereolab - Analogue Rock
You gotta' tick? Let me burn it off... Tock? No thanks, you bore the shit out of me, frankly.

Brian Wilson - (Suite) Wonderful/Song For Children/Child is Father of the Man/Surf's Up
The only song(s) on this disk that really represented this theme as it was (I think) meant to be heard. I mean, we're all getting older and we're all going to die but whatever it was that we once held onto as cool and righteous will eventually find itself laid out like bits of kelp and bone-white sand dollars, abandoned, forgotten, picked up or kicked aside but otherwise nothing more than the detritus of the last wave that will, inevitably, drop more dead things on the beach. Walk on, enjoy the spray, take a tumble in the breakers - you have this, now, and the rest matters with those who walk down the beach after you. They won't remember your obituary.

Massive Attack - Inertia Creeps
So... take a walk on the beach, your time is limited. Really, less time than a Victoria's Secret fantasy, I assure you (despite what you might think, otherwise)...

Patrick Ascione - Lune Noire (excerpt)
Rzzzzz.... zick, fnkkkkk.... what'd I tell you?!?

The Posies - Coming Right Along
See? Doesn't that feel good? I mean, you're gonna' die anyway...

Les McCann & Eddie Harris - Compared to What
That's what I'm asking.

Don McClean - American Pie
He kinda' says it's the "day the music died" but then he leaves it open for you to decide if you really hate this song or if you secretly love it.

Gov't Mule - 30 Days in the Hole
Unless you've done it, you won't understand how well the Dude does this song.

Thee Headcoatees - Ca Plane Pour Moi
Fucking French faggots.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Our Time to Be Hated
Fucking French faggots R Us. Or US. Something since six years ago, I think.

Pink Floyd - Eclipse
My Eclipse died six miles outside of Sacramento and this is all I've got...

Until noon I'm slapping the back of your head yelling, Morning!"

Note to all you Mixmania! players (update)

Sorry I've been a deadhead with this but there's too much on my plate at the moment to make this work the way I intended (and posted about). We, myself and the wee ones, have been stranded at my parent's house due to the weather and I'm away from my computer where all the information is regarding the various participants for the Time mix.

When I do get back to my computer, I'll probably take a kind friend's offer and have her mix and email all of you; probably won't be until Monday at the earliest. So please, hang in there and I apologize for dropping the ball.

In this decayed hole among the mountains, in the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

No more chocolate bunnies and what Easter grass remains are the stray tufts shoved between the cushions of the couch. Sunday's celebration, whatever it meant (secularly or sacerdotally) has gone the way of my petunias and crocuses.

As you can see, the midget mafia had much less enthusiasm for heading off to mass with my parents than they had for consuming peeps. Dressed nice for the occasion, though.

The bonnets were cute but unnecessary - there was nary a ray of sunshine on Sunday and we were bundling more so than bunting. The girls were not long for the dresses, either; not on a day where you could see your breath and your footsteps.

Last year at Easter, we were dealing with bees and spilled kool-aid. So much for warm-weather nostalgia.

Small wonder I'm suffering a bit of amnesia regarding the season this year: like so much of the country, it's not much of a spring. This evening looked like this:

Tomorrow's forecast calls for more of that; I'd prefer to remember Easter, not Christmas.

Close the damn door, it's freezing...

So it goes.

I just read that Kurt Vonnegut died at the age of 84.

Again, I'm too spent to do my usual ten-page rap and it would require at least that to explain what Vonnegut meant to me, especially during my exceptionally twisted adolescence. That influence extends into the present and much of what you read here is the result of what I learned from him; my sense of humor, my sense of outrage.

Life is too complicated to go into it at the moment. Hopefully, I will soon have the time and energy to articulate what's going on (and state my farewell to Kurt Vonnegut) by this weekend. Until then, I leave you with a favorite passage of mine, from “God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater,” a summation of his philosophy - and what he taught me:

“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’ ”

God Bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.

Tard

A-hyep, thass me, tard.

Spent my morning on the job track (the job I mentioned a week or so back fell through, yet more evidence for my theory of "blog jinx") and a lovely afternoon doing yard work for the Rents. Then more job stuff. My necktie (*gasp!*) is still on, too tired to take it off.

So... you mixmania! fiends will have to wait another day or so before I match everyone and mail them out. There's an ever ripening pineapple in the kitchen that I'm too tired to slice and eat, much less toss out with the trash.

ZZZZzzzzzzzz...

Blog Against Theocracy

“When fascism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.” —Sinclair Lewis

As much as I'd love to bloviate on this subject - a much, much larger threat to our country than terrorism, the bursting housing bubble, or global warming - I need to get shaking. The wee one's are getting ready to head over to the Rent's with me where we'll spend the rest of our weekend. Chocolate bunnies, hidden eggs, and Easter mass for them, chocolate bunny ears and Joseph Heller for me.

Instead of my blather, you're better off taking action at http://www.firstfreedomfirst.org/, reading about Blogging Against Theocracy and checking out Tristero's essential posts at Hullabaloo (spelling out how determined - and dangerous - the Fishists really are), Part I, Part II, and Part III - really, you need to click those links to get perspective on why blogging against theocracy is not just necessary but important.

I may get back here if I have time this evening but in the meantime, I'd be interested to read any posts YOU have put up in response to this call. Alert me with a link (and whatever else you'd like to add) in the comments and I promise to give you mention here, later.

Off to chocolate bunnyland.

No blinky tonight

New modem…. MMMMmmm. One steady light to guide me.

And so, as I threatened, I’m back to spank conservative asses with a wicked stick. Just as the Zen Master would smack a pupil upside the head to ameliorate enlightenment, I thump a conservative where his thoughts reside.

Applying for child care assistance and Medicaid is not a choice, it’s a necessity. As I wrote in my last post, those applications were conveniently “lost” and the entire process required filing everything again. Not a simple process of just resubmitting the paperwork but having to sit and wait and sit and wait, taking another day off from work to rectify the fuck up of a fuck up. The genius of welfare reform is that if anyone needs assistance they’d better bygod have a job. Then in order to get assistance, you don’t much go to that job because you have to sit and wait and sit and wait – all fucking day – in order to get that request processed. Several days, in fact, because even if a single T was not crossed, it all goes back to zilch. Same thing if something was “lost”. “We screwed up but it’s as if you screwed up, so….”

Some of you conservatives (still stupid enough to keep reading me) would say, “Find a better job”. That’s brilliant. Let’s make that part of the GOP’s new economic plan. Yes, let’s all be CEO’s - you morons.

I get to spend my tomorrow dealing with fuckups, feeling like Harry Reid or Nancy Pelosi; those of you who voted for the biggest fuckup in American history, I hope you feel sufficiently spanked but if you’re reading this, you get a bit extra.

Holy Freakin’ Christ with a chocolate dick

It’s touch and go whether or not I can post. This is the first time in 14 hours that I’ve had a steady light on my modem and I’m praying to the Virgin, the Elephant, and all the Monkeys that I’ll get to throw this up before my modem light goes all blinky. Blinky’s been my life for the last three weeks, a goddamn Pac-Man game I cannot win.

Lots of games I cannot win it seems, not unless I’m making a hundred grand a year or so. Last week X told me I needed to submit an application for our childcare assistance (which I did with a quickness) and this week tells me that both my application and her own application for Medicaid was “lost’.

These are two people whose combined income is less than $45K a year. Two people who struggle to just pay bills much less have anything left over to buy new shoes or jaunts at Chuck E Cheese. It’s touch and go whether or not I can post. This is the first time in 14 hours that I’ve had a steady light on my modem and I’m praying to the Virgin, the Elephant, and all the Monkeys that I’ll get to throw this up before my modem light goes all blinky. Blinky’s been my life for the last three weeks, a goddamn Pac-Man game I cannot win.

God knows we needed to keep corporations healthy.

Let’s keep the arctic ice melting, you dumbfucks, everything is working out so well. Let’s take a stroll in a Baghdad neighborhood and ignore the bodies, let’s tell gay brothers and sisters they’re subhuman, let’s let NOLA rot in shit that’s a metaphor for the rest of our country.

Comcast is supposed to be here in the morning to fix my connectivity issues; we’ll see. If they work it out, I swear, you’re going to hear a lot more about my son and how I can’t afford his medication and how easy it is for the government to “lose” paperwork when they’re ordered to lose paperwork.

If you like George Bush or the Republican party, you ought to stay away – dipshits. Your philosophy is about to get slammed hard once Comcast fixes my shit. Which seems a contradiction but no, that’s because the conservative mind is linear…

Spring break, broke, broker, brokest

I start a new job Friday. Told the old job I had places to go but they couldn't follow me there. Then I told them where they could go.

Having achieved A and giving a big finger to B, I've had a week to give to the kids which was serendipitously, their Spring Break. Odd what the universe will do when you're not killing people or stealing gas.

Mostly, I've spent time working on my parent's yard (having no real yard of my own) while the Midget Mafia runs rough-shod on my psyche. Really, I need one of those guns the guy had on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. A little ka-chunk and a needle in the ass, then wrap them in a blanket and put them away while smiling at the camera.

Marni said I needed to stay away from the worms she pulled out of the garden and that indeed, I needed to "pre-tect them against thunder and lightning". That and not use them for fishing.

That I fish merely to read and smoke a good cigar is of little consequence: I must pre-tect the worms.

A small glimmer to light up a life

I arrived on time.

I'd been told the program would start at 5:30 and I managed to slide in on the money. Had there not been a stalled semi on the interstate, I may have been there five minutes earlier but it didn't matter as the lights didn't dim until ten-to-six.

The gymnasium was full by the time I got there and I just managed to find a seat in the fifth row. In that crowd, I was worried that Lilly wouldn't be able to see me. After all, I wasn't there so much to see the program as I was to see her. It was her first real "school program" and really, her seeing me out in the audience was all that really mattered.

The students filed in and took their places on the risers. Lilly appeared diffident, out of place and it made me wonder if she really wanted to be there, singing and going through the motions. As far back as I was, I had to try - I waved.

It was if she had daddy radar, she recognized me immediately, aglow, lighting up the room with her smile. She waved back and shifted her mood, confident and happy to be there. During the program, she kept looking my way to see she had my undivided attention.

When it was over, I picked her up and carried her outside. She's four feet tall and almost 50 pounds but I could have sworn she was just a baby. My days of carrying her are numbered but she will always have my undivided attention.